


bird by snow and stir by still

by nagia



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Death's Head Adaptation, Defenders Spoilers, F/M, Heel-Face Revolving Doors For Everyone, Kastle Halloween Fic 2017, Matt And Frank's Roadtrip From Hell, Reconciliation, The Annual Halloween Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: In the wake of Midland Circle, Karen Page returns to Vermont.  Fagan Corners may not have changed -- but the Pages certainly have.  And with every minute that passes, she's less certain it's for the better.





	1. I hear pretty trees are good for the soul

Karen leaves the church a few minutes after Foggy does. She stares at the gray buildings all around it, the gray sidewalk, the gray sky and the smog. She feels buffeted, almost, by the cold autumn wind and the people passing by, annoyed at the woman standing still where they're trying to walk. She retreats into the shelter of the church doorway and tries to imagine going back to her office like nothing has changed.

But everything has. The whole world is different with no Matt Murdock in it — and so is the city. A shithole with heart, Foggy had once called it to her. That beating heart is at the bottom of a hole some couple hundred feet deep, in wreckage it's going to cost the city millions — or even billions — to clear out.

The wind starts up again, biting into her cheeks, as she pulls out her phone and starts two texts.

Ellison reacts with acceptance, probably masking some flavor of worry. Foggy doesn't react at all, but he's probably already busy. She hasn't gotten the impression that Hogarth leaves him with much time to himself.

It's a little sad how much of her life can be packed away for later. How easy it is to throw some casual outfits and some options into the red roller suitcase she keeps under her bed. Pack her toiletries and makeup case into a bag that zips up and fits in with the clothes.

And then she sits on the floor of her tiny, bare-seeming apartment — Christ, like she doesn't have at least two better places to sit — and she pulls out her phone and she tries to think of somewhere to go. Eventually, she dials a number from memory.

It rings. It rings, and it rings, and then a voice picks up. It's been eleven years, by now, but she would know that voice in a thousand. She'd listened to it for twenty years.

"Good afternoon, you've reached the Page residence. How may I help you?"

And there's a moment, a long moment, where Karen doesn't know what to say. Even if she knew, she couldn't possibly speak over the lump in her throat.

The kind, midwestern-accented voice turns a little less distantly polite and a little sharper. "Hello? Hello?"

"Mother," Karen manages to say at last, before her mother can hang up.

There's a pause, a silence, that stretches on so long she can hear the background buzz on the line like it's sitting in her phone's speaker. Like it's a message all in itself. She should probably hang up, should probably just go to Massachusetts or Maine. But so long as neither of them walks away from this, there's still a chance —

"Karen," Penelope Page says, and sounds warmly surprised. That doesn't mean anything, though. Both her parents have always been so good at sounding warm. "I — didn't expect to hear from you."

She feels her mouth curl into a smile, but she feels brittle, too, like if either of them says the wrong thing, then both of them will break. "I didn't expect to call."

And her mother says the words she hadn't known until today that she wanted to hear.

"Come home, Karen." She can't say anything in answer, can't come up with a reply even though it's something she wants, and that's probably why her mother continues, "Just… come see us. Do you think you can do that? Do you… do you need help getting here?"

Her pride — her stubbornness, her contrariness, ten years of knowing that they wouldn't know what had happened to her, that they wouldn't care — twitches, and she hears herself say, a little harsh, "Jesus, Mom. I'm not broke, I have a car; I can drive up. When — when works for you and Father?"

But her mother doesn't react to the snappish response. Almost as if she doesn't hear it, or doesn't register that she ought to be offended by it. Maybe she knows that Karen cringed immediately upon hearing herself, that Karen is already sorry for possibly fucking up this probably bullshit attempt at a reunion.

"Hm, well, my schedule is mostly free these days. I'm — I'm assuming you have a job, of course. When's the soonest you can get free? I'd hate for you to miss the trees."

'Miss the trees.' Karen is pretty sure that nobody who had actually been born in Vermont says that, but then, her mother has never been anything but very clearly from Wisconsin. And her mother is right — they're right on the tail end of the foliage season. If she wants to get a look at the leaves, then she'd have to go soon.

"I have some time right now," is what she says. "I can be there tomorrow, or the day after. Don't you need to talk this over with Father?"

Penelope just makes an absent noise, and Karen can imagine her waving a hand in the air, dismissive. "Leave that to me."

"Yeah, okay, Mom."

"We'll expect you the day after tomorrow."

" _Okay_ , Mom."

"And don't you even think of staying at the Camden's. It's probably full up of leaf peepers anyway."

She's probably right. There aren't any other hotels all that close to Fagan Corners. Karen's going to get stuck staying with her parents. But what the hell, it's only about five hours back to New York from there, and a couple hours into Boston, depending on the traffic. If it goes wrong, then it goes wrong, and she'll deal with it.

* * *

Karen throws everything into the car she'd bought with the insurance settlement after Frank had totaled Ben's car. She'd saved Ben's tapes, though, for reasons she can't explain, and while That's The Way Of The World doesn't help her mood trying to get out of the city, it's not a bad soundtrack for going up I-87 toward Albany.

She stops there as the sunlight starts to fade. She almost stops at Starbucks, but her phone informs her there's a Professor Java's nearby, and that seems almost like a better omen. The coffee is good, the service is reasonably fast. It takes her half an hour to figure out how to start composing a text to Foggy, to let him know where she's gone.

'I think I need to leave town for a week' cut it with Ellison, but Foggy —

Losing Matt has been so rough on him. She'd rather he know than worry.

'Headed home for a little while,' she finally sends.

Twenty minutes later, Foggy texts her with, 'Good plan. Where's home, so I don't have to worry?'

'Vermont. Fagan Corners.'

He sends a heart eyes emoji after that, and then only, 'Well, I hear pretty trees are good for the soul.'

It makes her laugh a little. Neither one of them believes in souls, and, besides, she's not sure Foggy would know what to do with more trees than can be found in Central Park. He's never really seemed the "moved by scenery" type to her — she and Foggy and Matt, they'd always cared more about people. Karen and Foggy had been more selfish with it, caring closer to home, closer to themselves. Matt had somehow managed to find room for the whole damn city, all eight million souls in the train wreck, in his heart.

She tosses an empty paper cup in the garbage, and climbs back into her car. It's kind of a pain getting from Professor Java's to US-7, but honestly, this whole trip has been surprisingly easy for something she threw together in an afternoon.

It's full dark, by the time she makes it to Fagan Corners, and she's driving through woods she remembers all too well. The town itself is mostly clear — a tree-lined main intersection, because who doesn't want to look at Bradford pears, apparently — but the area around it is densely wooded. She doesn't go straight into town, though.

She makes a stop by an exit ramp. There isn't a chain link fence there, anymore. No memorial cross, no flowers. It's probably a good sign, but all it makes her feel is bitter. She takes a deep breath, and it's always so much colder, here. The air bites back as she breathes it in, crisp in her mouth and burning in her throat.

There is no voice. No feeling of peace. No sense of presence. Nothing — just Karen and a hazy night, and the place where Kevin died.

She sees no point saying anything. There's a minute or so that she stands there, wishing that she could find something to say. But even if this is the last place that Kevin Page was ever alive, he's not here — he never was — and even an I'm sorry seems melodramatic and ridiculous.

She gets back into her car, and drives into town, and asks for a two night stay when she gets to the Camden family bed-and-breakfast.

Martha Camden doesn't seem at all surprised to see her. Then again, Martha Camden has never seemed surprised by much.

* * *

Karen sleeps in the next day. She wakes to soft, weak light coming in through her curtains, and she stretches in bed, enjoying how surprisingly warm and cozy and good she feels. She should get up — Martha won't leave her breakfast in the oven forever, especially not with all the leaf peepers in town — but she feels so lazy.

She does manage to roll out of bed, to find a pair of jeans and an old flannel and some boots. She pulls her hair back, barely bothers with makeup, and heads downstairs. Martha pours her a cup of coffee and asks, "Will you be having breakfast tomorrow, too?"

It's a very nice way of probing to see how long Karen will be in town. Karen accepts the coffee and pours nothing into it. It isn't quite as strong as the stuff she makes, and she can actually smile at the taste of it.

"Yes," she says. "But I'll, um. Be out of your hair after that. Just made better time than I expected, and you know how Mom gets."

Which is a very nice way of making sure Martha Camden has no idea how long she's here, or why she came, only that she's expected. It's petty, but it makes Karen feel a little better. Karen Page being back in Fagan Corners isn't going to go without notice, after all, and Martha Camden's as bad as anybody else with the rumor mill, as long as there's grist.

The plate of pastries Martha pushes toward her all look delicious.

* * *

The new Windler County Public Library is about a fifteen minute drive from what passes for downtown Fagan Corners. It's in Cornwell, the county seat, past a series of winding, well-wooded roads. She takes her time on the drive. It's not like she won't be back this way again, probably, but there's no reason not to take in some foliage now.

And it really is breathtaking.

The new library is a quaint little red brick building that blends in nicely with the rest of the block, utterly indistinguishable save for the sign out front. The hours on the frosted glass read M-F 9-7, S&S 1-6, but Karen knows better than to believe them. Little libraries like this are constantly changing their hours, depending on budget and interest.

She doesn't recognize the boy behind the checkout desk, but she has no doubt that he's a high school volunteer on a study hall. When she asks him where to find Esme, he points in exactly the direction she'd expected, and blushes furiously, dropping his eyes. She finds Esme in the stacks by the children's section, sorting books.

"Karen Page," Esme says, but her tone is far warmer than Corrinne Peel's had been. More genuine. She steps in for a hug, and Karen tries to return it past the way her whole body tenses. Esme doesn't push, quickly lets her go and steps back.

And Karen's smile is real, feels like it's stretching her face, as she answers, with real happiness, "Esme. It's good to see you again."

"Good to see you, too. You disappeared off the face of the earth. Last I heard, you were maybe heading to Burlington, or was it back to Boston?" Esme shoves a few books into her cart and begins to push it away from the stacks, most likely toward either her office or the break room.

"I'm actually in New York, now," she says, following easily. "Working for a newspaper. The New York Bulletin."

The words clearly surprise Esme, but the old librarian doesn't push. Instead, she settles herself, a little creakily, behind her desk, and waves a hand at Karen in a silent request to sit. Karen's always been tall, and Esme is even tinier now than she'd been when Karen had been in high school. She looks frailer, too, her skin papery and the wrinkles even more pronounced. Fagan Corners and Windler County haven't changed much — but it's been ten years, and even if she hasn't seen it in the architecture, she's seeing it now.

Esme smiles at her. "I never would have thought a newspaper for you. But journalism's a good start. Hemingway, Gaiman, Pratchett, even that new fellow, Scalzi. They all got their start in the newspaper."

"I'm still not much of a writer," she admits. "I'm better at… well. I'm sure you can guess."

Esme can, if her expression says what Karen thinks it does. There's a moment where she looks a little sad. There's a little silence, totally natural, considering the thing they're not talking about.

"So tell me what I've missed in town. Ten years of gossip is a lot to catch up on," Karen says, ending it.

Esme has always been an excellent source of gossip, and it's still true. She's just full of news about the county, especially the school district. But she knows her audience, too, and she works her way around to mentioning the Page family. "Hm, well, Penny retired two years ago, I hear. The University she worked for stopped funding her pet project, and she said she was too old and creaky to start over. Woman's never creaked a day in her life, I'm telling you. Picked up a new pet cause, too, started volunteering a bit with the VFW."

Her stomach lurches. She can remember her father's annoyance every time the military was so much as mentioned, his disgust in the wake of 9/11, the rise of militant patriotism. Jingoism. He'd called the United States Armed Forces a brazen idol in a massively unpopular sermon, only a year or two into the never-ending War on Terror. Karen can still remember the looks some of the students in her class had given her, the next day, though mostly what she remembers is how badly she'd wanted to just crawl into her locker and never come back out.

"How did my father take that?"

"Paxton? I think… I think losing both his children, so soon after each other, was hard on him. He's still active in his church and helping out in that other one, and he's still doing all sorts of volunteer work. Still hunting, too, from what I hear. But I don't hear much about him. Whatever he made of Penny's new cause, the rest of the town hasn't heard a peep."

It's strange to think of. Her father had always seemed so huge in the town, at least to her. And yet here he is, eleven years later, all but faded into obscurity. Maybe his anger faded with his reputation.

Not that she really believes that.

* * *

She takes the winding roads out from the Camden's the next day around noon. No Earth, Wind & Fire playing for her now; she turns on the radio. It's something of a habit, returning home, to listen to the signal fade away into static the deeper into the woods she goes. She loses the sound of the disc jockey's voice some four minutes outside of town, on a hilly back road so thick with trees there's almost no light. She slows down instinctively, tapping the brake, maneuvering smoothly along the curves slow enough that she could stop suddenly if she had to.

It's not deer or hunters that worry her, but tourists. Fagan Corners isn't really big enough or interesting enough to get many people, but it gets enough.

Her parents really must have fallen out of touch with the rest of the town, because Karen can only stare at the property as she drives up. The woods have been thinned a little — not much, never much, it's practically a Page family tradition to make sure the woods on their property are deep and spooky — and, most impressively, there's a wall. It must be eight feet tall, a beautifully-laid piece of stonework with delicate — and pointy-looking — wrought iron work.

The gate is wrought iron, too.

Karen pulls right up to the gate and leans out. There's a camera next to a keypad her mother said nothing about, and after she stares into it for long enough, the gate opens. Her new piece of shit car trundles on through, and she hears the gate hiss closed behind her.

Christ, like she needed more nightmares about how nobody could hear her scream.

The driveway's about half a mile long, and as the car crawls along it, she sees that no more space has been cleared around the house. It's still the same thick, mixed forest, a blend of old oak and young pine and others she recognized less readily.

The old graveyard is even still the same. There's a headstone with fresh flowers on it. She doesn't let herself look at it for too long.

The carriage house looks the same. The main house, too. Some of the paint's been redone, but that's the only change she can see.

Karen parks by the front door and hauls herself out of the car, popping the trunk as she goes. She's just grabbed her suitcase when a hand closes around her arm, above the elbow.

She jerks immediately, dropping her suitcase and taking a step away and moving automatically to break the grip of the thumb, but the hand tightens, hard enough she's sure it's leaving a mark, and she's practically yanked around, to look up into the face of a complete and total stranger.

The very confused face of a complete and total stranger. She registers the undercut, the slightly crooked jaw, the big, blue eyes, but mostly she's seeing how slack his mouth is, the deep furrow of his brow. He looks like a concerned and lopsided puppy.

"Who are you?" He demands. "How did you get in here?"

"I'm — I'm Karen," she replies, gasping a little. His grip on her arm is really hurting, now, little lancets of fire in a ring where his fingers are touching her skin. "I — I grew up here, I —"

"Let's go see Dr. Page," the man replies, as if she hadn't spoken at all. And then he begins to lead her — his grip lessening a little — toward the carriage house, rather than her father's office in the library.

The carriage house. Her mother's territory, as far back as Karen can remember, and yet nobody she can think of ever called Penelope Page "doctor." Not in conversation — to the rare other children her mother had interacted with, she'd been Mrs. Page, and to other adults, she'd always been Penny. Despite the fact that she was a medical doctor and a psychiatrist.

Her mother's office looks mostly unchanged. A new couch by the window, a few new light fixtures, a new rolling chair, but the big oak desk is the same, and her mother —

Her hair, which is still an artful riot of curls, tamed today by a cloth headband, has gone that particular bony shade that some blondes get when they age. The color is wonderfully even, no gray lowlights, no white highlights, and frankly, Karen suspects hair dye. Considering that she'd started bleaching around seventeen, she has no stones to throw. Her mother's eyes are still so bright a green that she can see it from across the room. She's a little heavier than the whipcord-thin woman Karen remembers from her own youth, crow's feet and laugh lines pronounced at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

But there's no doubt.

"Mom," Karen says.

And her mother's eyes flick, at once sharp, cold, seeing every possible flaw, and absent, warm, unseeing, to the man who'd brought her into the office.

The hand holding onto her arm loosens again, and she could swear she senses — hears, more than anything else, so much of her focus is forward, on her mother — a slight shake.

"For god's sake, Chuck," her mother says. "Let go of my daughter's arm and get back to the security monitor."

He lets go of her immediately. "Sorry, Dr. Page," he says, and there's an edge in his voice, a tremor. But then he turns toward Karen, she can see it from the corner of her eye. "Sorry, ma'am. Would you like me to help you with your bags?" Whatever was in his voice before is gone now, and he speaks slower, more deliberately.

"It's just one bag," she says. "I'll be fine. It was, um, nice meeting you, Chuck." It wasn't, actually, but he doesn't seem to notice how limp the pleasantry comes out of her mouth.

He just gives her a slow, shiny-eyed puppy smile, and then turns and walks away. She can't hear his footsteps, despite the heavy boots he wears.

"I'm sorry about Chuck. We hired him for security, after we had the gate put in," her mother says. "I think he was a few years ahead of you in school. Now, let's go get that bag of yours. Get you all settled in." A pause, and her mother's smile is so warm. "Your father has been looking forward to you coming home. Did you know that?"

No, she doesn't say. She didn't know that. And she can hardly believe it.


	2. You gonna propose?

Honestly, it's like the city went entirely crazy in his absence. He left town for, what, ten months, and in response, the entire state of New York lost its goddamn mind. Some huge high-rise toppled by, of all people, New York's favorite vigilantes. Daredevil dead. Some jackass calling himself the Iron Fist roaming around Hell's Kitchen in the Devil's place, punching out muggers.

Frank ignores it, as much as he can. There's a fuckton of work to do — regular shitbags crossing his path, as well as the conspiracy he's chasing down — and he's pretty sure he has forever to do it in. But there's a weird twinge, when he realizes again that Murdock — that Daredevil — is gone now. Feels like the world has lurched, like something's out of balance. Weirder, still, that Page apparently got the fuck out of town.

Not that he can blame her.

Maybe that — the feeling like New York's rug had been pulled out from under him — explains why, when the Devil of Hell's Kitchen shows up on the fire escape outside Frank's latest safehouse, Frank's response is to start punching. It's a surprisingly good feeling, like God or something else made Matt Murdock to get sucker punched. But it's a lot less satisfying to swing at a blind guy who's having trouble dodging, and Murdock is as unsteady on his feet as he'd been the first time they really tangled.

"You're such a piece of shit," he tells Murdock, and then slaps an ice pack into the man's hand. There's a pause, and Murdock looks surprisingly lost, his eyes exposed for once.

"Thank you, Frank," is Murdock's reply. "Really not making me regret coming here at all. Do you have any idea how hard it is to track you down?"

"Not hard enough."

"Too bad," Murdock snaps. "Karen's gone."

Frank settles into the only chair in the apartment and watches Murdock flat out drop into a crouch and tap his palm on the floor. He tilts his head a little, and then he frowns up at Frank. Like he's pissed that there's nowhere else to sit in a one-man apartment geared up for a one-man war on the worst parts of the city.

"I noticed."

That gets Murdock's attention. "You went looking for her?"

He shrugs, a deliberately casual gesture. No telling if the other man sees or senses it or not. "She's good at finding things out. And I heard she got herself targeted by ninjas again. She blew town, Red. Not kidnapped by anybody."

"Yeah, Frank, she left because she thought I was dead. She told Foggy she was headed home to get her head on straight."

He raises his eyebrows. He has a feeling he knows what Murdock is going to ask, and he has a horrible feeling that he knows what he's going to say. But he's gotta hear it first. Worse things have happened than his bad feelings being wrong.

"So she went home; she'll come back. Talk to her then."

"I have to fix this — she has to know. That I'm alive. She deserves that much. You know she deserves better than thinking I'm dead and only — only finding out I'm not when she comes back. If she comes back."

Pretty much exactly what he thought. Frank leans forward. "How do you plan on fixing this, Red? You gonna propose?"

But he's just being a shit, and they both know it. Murdock's brows knit anyway, hell, he recoils, alarmed at the very idea. Which doesn't exactly fill Frank with any confidence about any of this. But, hell, at this point, he's the very patron saint of doing incredibly dumb shit. And Murdock is right about Page.

She does deserve better than to grieve a man who ain't even dead. Not so deep she goes back to whatever cookie cutter neighborhood she clawed her way out of, crying into her daddy's shoulder.

The fact that going to talk to her, to show her what he's got, might bring her in on the things he needs her for? He doesn't have to talk to Murdock about that. That'll be between him and Miss Page. And she might not even slam the door on his face, if he brings her a living Matt Murdock.

"You know where she went?"

"Fagan Corners, Vermont," Murdock says, and Frank almost has to laugh.

* * *

Murdock bitches about the van. Things Murdock also bitches about: Frank's taste in music, how long it takes to get out of the city, some smell in the van Frank still doesn't pick up, an engine noise that Frank doesn't hear and isn't worried about, on and on, until he's pretty sure Murdock would be bitching about the color of the sky, if he could see it.

They're not even out of Hell's Kitchen when Frank snaps, "You hate this so much, why did you bring this to me?"

"Jessica won't leave New York, Danny can't, and Claire shut the door in my face, so I can't ask Luke."

He has no idea who any of those people are. He wants to assume that they're the other vigilantes, but maybe they're nurse assistants or a driving service or something. He grunts. "What about Nelson?"

"He's got a big case coming up. I can't ask him to…"

"Yeah, I get it. I'm the one with the time and the transport." Frank shakes his head. "You're a piece of work, Murdock."

Like he isn't. He's the one who used her as bait, after all. The one who turned away first. She might have laid down the ultimatum, but —

Stupid of him, to think he was gonna work it through without her. Without her ever needing to know. Not stupid, maybe. But impulsive. Not his best idea. Not his best night.

He's had worse ones.

The drive could be worse. It's crowded, trafficky — and that gives Murdock hives, which ends up annoying him — but at least it isn't boring. The stretch between Odessa and El Paso had been far, far worse, and even that had been better than some of the drives he'd been on in the sandbox. Murdock's bitching develops a rhythm, almost, something Frank can tune out, as much as he tunes in with the radio.

He was expecting some cookie-cutter suburb, with streets all full of trees and cute little matching shops all in a row. Someplace that looked like gingerbread and smelled like maple syrup.

It turns out Fagan Corners is an intersection with a town hall that's also the post office, a church, a gift shop, a couple of store fronts, and a few more houses. The ubiquitous bed-and-breakfast has a sign out front that says Camden House. Frank parks the van in its tiny lot.

"Get out," he tells Murdock. "We're in Fagan Corners."

Murdock straightens his tie by feel. His hands close tight around his cane, and Frank almost has to laugh again. Right up until he notices that Murdock's knuckles are white.

"What's going on with that, anyway? You're off balance?"

Murdock grits his teeth for a second. "My hearing. It's — sometimes it's normal, sometimes it's… not as good. Sometimes it's gone."

Which goes a long way to explaining why Murdock is so pissy.

They book a couple of rooms, probably the last two rooms in the house, and find out that the nearest library is a fifteen minute drive away. The face Murdock makes is truly impressive. Man just rode in the van for five and a half hours, and an extra fifteen minutes makes him balk?

Frank thanks the woman, and then stops, thinking. "You wouldn't happen to have a local phonebook, would you? Uh, residential?"

The hostess opens a drawer in her reception desk and pulls out a thin little volume. He hadn't expected anything thick, anything like the phonebooks he remembers from his childhood. But he's still surprised at how small it is.

There's a couple Pages in the surrounding towns, but only two in Fagan Corners: a Dr. P Page, and a P & P Page, and Frank makes note of their address. According to Google Maps, it's not too far out of town. The phone claims it's a seven minute drive from the intersection they're parked in.

"Found her," he tells Murdock. "Got the address. You wanna unpack, or you wanna go?"

He didn't even really need to ask. Murdock's answer is all over his face, and it's the one Frank expected.


	3. I try not to judge.

Her father is not nearly as happy to see her as her mother had suggested. Karen and Penelope had gone back to her car after leaving the carriage house. Karen had picked up the suitcase she'd dropped and followed her mother into the house — 

Only to find her father standing in the foyer, still tall, his hair even whiter than it had been ten years ago, turned almost skeletally thin. He'd used to tower over her — and he's still head and shoulders taller than she is — but now he just looks like a scarecrow.

As she watches, her father takes in a deep breath. So deep that he straightens up, shoulders relaxing back. It's a gesture she remembers all too well from her childhood. Kevin had cringed every time he saw it. Karen had just started hiding in the broom closet, taking in blankets and ginger snaps, and, as he grew old enough to follow her, Kevin, too.

But Paxton Page doesn't yell. He just stares down at her, shoulders relaxed but face tense. 

She looks right back up at him, not sure what her father's latest game is, but unwilling to back down from it. She's not a child about to hide from him. Not anymore. Not in the last ten years.

"Karen," he says at last, and his voice is level. "I didn't expect to see you again." There's something so trustworthy in that voice, so paternalistic, that some part of her wants to start explaining. How leaving has changed her, made her better — how it's good that she's been gone.

Instead, she says, "I know. I didn't expect to come back."

"You have a lot to apologize for." How does a man who never needed a microphone, whose voice she can practically still hear reverberating through the halls, make himself sound so soft, so reasonable?

"So do you," she says, and her father's cold expression cracks for a second, his head just barely dipping, his eyes narrowing slightly. Point to her, apparently.

"We can talk about all of that later," Mother says. "Or never. That's an old, sad story, and it's all over now. Things will be better now."

Karen looks over, and her father looks back down at her. And for a moment, it's like one of the good times, long ago. Both of them listening to Mother and silently sharing a can you believe this? I can't either. It only lasts a moment, though, and then he's the man she remembers. Tall and stern, looking at her with an expression she can't place or fathom.

She follows Mother up the stairs, so ridiculously familiar, up to the second floor. She passes the guest rooms, her brother's room, and then Mother stops at the door to her old room.

"You'll be here, of course. You'll let me know if there's anything you need?" Mother's face is so earnest, so concerned.

She manages a slightly weak-sounding, "Of course."

She reaches out and places a hand on Karen's shoulder, squeezing a little. "I'm glad you've come home, Karen. I'll want to hear all about what you've been doing, about what caused this… this change of heart. And you'll be joining us for dinner, I'm sure? But I have to get back to work."

And then Mother is gone, headed back down the hall, and Karen opens the door to her bedroom — 

She should have expected it; she didn't leave home under the best circumstances. But literally everything personal of hers has been removed. From the posters on her walls to all the yearbooks she'd kept to the first school newspaper with her byline on the front page. They've even changed her bedspread from the pink roses her mother had all but insisted on to something with a lot of purples and blues.

And she gets, of course she does, that her parents had needed to move on as much as she had. Even if she hadn't stormed out of the house and Fagan Corners in the middle of the worst fight she'd ever had with them, they would have changed things. It's natural.

It still feels like a slap.

She unpacks her suitcase. She plans to be here for five days, and it feels spitefully good to open up the dresser drawers and put her things in them. Where they used to.

And then she sits on her bed, staring at her de-personalized room, and doesn't know what to do with herself. She lies back on the bed — same mattress; one of the springs in it creaks a little, just the way she remembers — and rests her head on the pillows. They've gone thin and flat and uncomfortable, and she exhales a sigh. She really doesn't feel like driving to the Wal-Mart just outside of Cornwell to replace them.

She rolls over onto her side, the same side she always has, staring at the empty, re-painted wall. Kevin's room is on the other side of it. But she's not feeling quite masochistic enough to go and look. She can't decide if it would be better or if Kevin's room had received the same treatment. She doesn't really want to know, anyway.

* * *

Just like she had the minute she'd turned sixteen, Karen ends up being the one to go get their carry-out order. She doesn't even have to Google Map the drive to the Greek diner in the neighboring town, although there's a moment she could have sworn she'd missed her turn-off.

They eat dinner in the dining room, on Grandmother's nice china, but there's a heap of concordances on the far end of the dining table. When she'd been in highschool, they hadn't been allowed to do homework there, and god forbid if she or Kevin had left a stray book or paper on it. The dining room table had been sacred.

Apparently not anymore.

"How are you supporting yourself?" Father asks as he dishes grilled lamb onto her plate. 

There's a pitcher of water in the middle of the table, and Karen leans forward to snag it, pouring herself a glass. "Well, for a while I was a legal assistant. I transitioned into journalism about a year ago."

Her parents share a look.

Mother passes her plate, apparently for grilled lamb, without looking away from Karen. "How did that happen?"

"We took on a pretty high profile case, there were a lot of inconsistencies, and I ended up working with the editor at a newspaper office." Karen shrugs. "We lost the case, the firm split, and I ended up working for the editor."

"And what do you write?" Father passes Karen her plate. He actually sounds interested and only mildly judgmental.

"Mostly investigative stuff," she answers. "Mm, when I first started there, I had this… puff piece editorial. I think Ellison only published it because it was Christmas or Hannukah or something."

"You sound happy for having only been published because it was a holiday," her mother points out.

"I've written other things since then. I got front page when I covered Danny Rand shutting down a production plant, without consulting the board."

Father's response is, "We heard about that. Surprisingly compassionate, for a businessman."

"Mr. Rand is full of surprises." Her thoughts flash back to the woman he'd brought into the police station, the one with the stomach wound, who'd been clutching some kind of sword. She smiles, and says, "Enough about me. What have you two been up to? I heard from Esme you'd retired, Mom. What do you do in the carriage house all day?"

Better to start slowly than to start asking why they've fronted the property with a wall and why they have a security consultant.

"Oh, I retired from the University," Mother raises her hand, gives the dismissive wave Karen knows so well. "But I didn't stop being a psychiatrist, Karen. I have a few patients and plenty of research on treating them. Enough to keep me from getting bored." She gestures with her glass, indicating Father. "Now, your father over there…"

"Don't, Penelope," Father snaps. "I do a little less preaching and a little more marital counseling than I used to. I picked up hiking for a while, but I don't think I'll keep at it. Not much else has changed. It's a sleepy town, Karen, and your mother and I both have always appreciated the quiet life."

* * *

Father clears away the dishes — it's evidently not her mother's turn, and Karen went to fetch dinner — so Karen follows Mother to the carriage house. It looks vastly different from the way she remembers it, as a cozy little sunlit office. Instead, her mother has set her office off to the side, now with a door that locks, and there's a break area and security station, and an unlabeled door with a deadbolt installed.

"Records room," Mother says when Karen looks to the deadbolt. "I run a tiny practice, but you wouldn't believe the HIPAA regulations. Or the fines." 

A totally different guy is sitting at the security station. His hair is curly and dark, and when Karen squints, she thinks she maybe recognizes him as a boy Kevin had known. Was he on the school baseball team? In band?

"Karen, this is Todd Baldwin, our other security consultant. Todd, this is Karen."

Todd jerks his head downward exactly once, but doesn't look away from the monitors.

"Todd," Mother says again, patiently, and he looks over his shoulder.

"Nice to meet you," he says, and then he turns back to his desk, hunching his shoulders.

Karen doesn't say anything about it until she and Mother are safely ensconced in her mother's office. Though the layout of the carriage house has changed, her mother's home office looks much the same as she remembers it. Then again, her father was right. Almost nothing in this town has changed. There's still an electric kettle on a table by the desk, and a tea set. Her mother scoops tea from a cannister into the teapot, then lifts the electric kettle and pours hot water in.

"He's friendly," she remarks, sitting down on Mother's comfy love seat. She leans back, closing her eyes and thinking of long, cold Sunday afternoons when she'd been allowed into the carriage house to quietly do her homework.

"I've heard around town he's had problems adjusting since he came home. I try not to judge."

That gets Karen's attention. "Came home?"

Her mother looks thoughtful for a moment. "He joined… I think it was the Air Force? This was after you left. He just got back a couple of years ago." She begins pouring tea into cups, and offers Karen one.

She reaches out and takes it. "Thank you. I… I always thought this was just for patients."

"I actually don't usually drink tea with my patients. Distressed people and hot liquids… It can help, but I'd rather it not end up all over them." Her mother smiles. "Sugar? I keep some cream in the breakroom."

Karen shakes her head. "No, thank you. This is herbal, isn't it? It smells really nice."

"A rhubarb blend, I think. I hardly pay attention. Chuck's taken to stocking the tea."

Not a thing she'd expect of him. But then again, it feels sometimes like nobody's who she thinks they are. She just smiles politely at her mother. "Is this where the polite interrogation begins?"

"I'd have to go get the hanging lightbulb, and I'm much too old for that, dear." Her mother offers her a smile.

And it's so easy to just smile back, to let herself chuckle a little. Maybe — 

Maybe what they had all needed really was time. If they could have stepped back, let the grief settle and age and get dusty, maybe none of it would have happened.

It couldn't have happened that way, though, she realizes, as soon as she thinks about it. Kevin dying — it always would have been the end of them as a family. At least for a while.

But maybe it can be better now.

* * *

She wakes to the scent of coffee, floating up the central stair, and the sound of rain. Karen rolls over in bed, stretching for a moment, and then pads across the hall to the bathroom. It's strange how so much of the house itself is familiar territory, and she feels completely welcome, and yet the thought of going down into the kitchen and eating breakfast with her parents seems unfamiliar, stressful.

She blows her hair dry before padding back across the hall to get dressed and put on her everyday makeup.

By the time Karen gets downstairs, her mother has vanished — off to the carriage house, she assumes — and only Father is left in the kitchen. She gestures to the coffee pot, and at his nod, pours herself a cup. He's having some sort of oatmeal muesli thing, but someone has left out granola and a tray of muffins.

Typical Page family breakfast, really. She snags a muffin and a napkin and seats herself at the kitchen table, not too close to Father, but not far enough away from him to look intimidated.

"Are you writing your sermon today? Only five days left until Sunday."

"Moved the drafting to Thursdays. Revision on Saturday evenings." Father changes sections in the newspaper. This entails a swooping gesture she only remembers seeing on weekends and the snap-crinkle of fresh newsprint. "No, today it's counseling, and then I'm clearing my to-do list for Friday."

She nods and returns her focus to her muffin.

"Your mother mentioned to me last night that you had been seeing somebody?"

"I was. We uh. We ended things about a year ago, and then he…" She trails off.

"He passed away recently."

"Ten days ago," she said, and takes refuge in a sip of coffee.

Her father nods. "I'm sorry to hear it, Karen. I really am. I may not always approve of how younger generations are handling the complications of relationships, but to hold your interest, I can believe he must have been a good man."

"Matt… really was. He could be selfless to a fault. He took a lot of pro bono cases, you know. I know a lot of people expect defense attorneys to be sleazy, but all he wanted to do was help people."

Her father nods again, folds his paper, and pushes his bowl away. "He sounds like exactly the sort of man your mother and I would have wanted for you."

She has to choke back a laugh at that. Oh, they'd have loved Matt Murdock. But her father, at least, would have hated Daredevil. He didn't even believe in the use of violence in cases of self-defense. To harm another human being, made in God's image, was always and inescapably wrong.

"Thank you," is all she says. "That means a lot."

Father nods back at her, and then gathers his bowl and coffee mug and stands from the breakfast table. "Your mother is out in the carriage house already. She's seeing patients today. I should be back early afternoon sometime."

He clears the granola and muffins away in a silence that is more companionable than awkward.

* * *

Karen spends the morning on her laptop. Ellison has given her some time out of the city — but that just means he won't expect to see her in the office. It doesn't change any of her deadlines. She has a dropbox to fill with copy, still.

It's surprisingly nice to take her laptop and retreat to the library — which had, throughout her childhood, been Father's domain — and just write. She ends up listening to Earth, Wind & Fire as she writes, then transitioning to one of her favorite eighties playlists. It feels like she blinks and she's written fifteen hundred words, completing one piece and getting a good start on another.

She heads back to her bedroom to pack the laptop away and grab her purse. Her parents' door is wide open, and it's definitely nosy, but she can't resist the urge to poke her head in and see if anything has changed. The bedspread has been updated, and the walls repainted. There's a chaise lounge on the far wall, now, by the window, where there had been an armchair.

They haven't rearranged anything else.

She goes to Kevin's door, after that. She knocks first, just to make sure Father isn't in there, but when there's no answer, she opens the door and slips inside.

They took down his grunge posters. She remembers a room peppered in giant versions of album covers by the Screaming Trees, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and, of course, Nirvana. And yet all of that's gone now. There are bare spots on the walls where they'd been. His baseball trophies are still on the dresser, his guitar is still leaning in the far corner.

They'd cleared away the schoolwork that had always littered his desk, and instead it's full of pictures of Kevin. Karen picks up one of the frames and stares down into it.

It's the day they'd brought him home from the hospital, and she'd finally been allowed to really meet her new brother. Grandmother had snapped the photo of her holding Kevin for the first time, while her mother had hovered in the background, terrified that Karen would drop him. It had been a candid, not coached — the camera had caught her looking down at him like she couldn't understand how the tiny baby in her arms was supposed to grow up to be a person.

It's the only photograph of her that she's seen anywhere in the house, she realizes.

She puts the picture down and picks up a few more. Kevin riding his bike down the driveway. Kevin in orange earmuffs, staring down distastefully at the camo vest Dad had bought for him. Kevin at the lakehouse, beaming at the camera in his life jacket, which he had at some point pulled off and stepped into, wearing it like shorts. Kevin on his first day of high school, wearing red-and-black plaid and those drab, olive green cargo pants that had been so in fashion at the time.

She remembers her mother's confused annoyance at Kevin's utter insistence on dressing like he was not only colorblind but from the nineties. There had been an almighty fight when he'd started hooking safety-pins down the seams of all his cargo pants and then ripping out the stitches in the hems. One or the other, Mom would have borne in baffled silence, but both? Both had been too much.

Karen turns away and heads out of the room, shutting the door again behind her. She heads back down the central stair and out the front door. She makes no effort to lock it behind her; with that huge fence and gate, it's not like anybody the Pages don't want there will be getting on the property.

It's still raining by the time she gets to her car. She looks up, sighing, having hoped it would somehow stop. She can't help but notice as she climbs into her car that the dark blue Volvo she'd parked next to the day before — almost certainly her father's car; he's been driving dark blue Volvos since before she could name colors — hasn't moved, and the ground underneath it is still dry.

* * *

Her little piece of shit trundles silently down the drive, out the gate. She returns laden with new pillows, another sack of coffee, and some lunch meat and bread. There's a long pause before the gate opens for her, and she's a little ashamed of the fact that she's pretty obviously rolling her eyes when the gate finally slides open.

Hopefully Chuck or Todd or whoever's manning the security station isn't too offended.

There's a white van in the drive, parked near the carriage house, she realizes as she heads for her parking spot. As she gets closer, she realizes that there are three men standing in the driveway — 

Karen pulls the car over. She's barely shifted gears into park before she's fumbling the door open and moving toward them. Frank Castle, she recognized immediately, and the other — it can't be. He's dead. He's been dead for days. Even if she hasn't been able to totally believe it, she's known it.

But there's no question. She knows the way he stands, the set of his shoulders. He's holding the cane, and when his head turns toward her, as if he'd heard her coming — 

Matt Murdock is standing in her driveway with his hands resting on his cane.

"Matt?"

The word is out of her mouth before she can stop herself from asking. She must sound totally bewildered. Hurting and hopeful all at once.

"Karen."

"You're alive." It's stupid. He's obviously alive. He's literally standing in front of her; of course he's alive. And yet those are the words that make it out of her mouth. "How… how did you…? How long have you…?"

"You and Foggy were the first people I looked for," he says, sweeping his cane and moving toward her, totally ignoring Chuck like Matt has no idea that Chuck is there. "I'm so glad I found you. I… I wanted to make sure you were one of the first people to know."

Some part of her wants to snap that what he's saying is nice but isn't an answer. But she doesn't, she can't, her hands are covering her mouth and there's a lump in her throat.

He reaches out, his fingertips grazing along her cheek. "I've only been awake a few days. I don't know how I got out." A long, long pause, and though she can't see his eyes past his glasses, there's something troubled in the set of his brow, the downward curve of his mouth. "I didn't really expect to."

She nods. She had suspected as much. She just hadn't expected him to admit it.

She looks past Matt, to Frank. He hasn't taken his eyes off Chuck, but he nods in her direction. "Don't look at me, ma'am, I'm just the driver. Who's this shitbrick?"

"Dr. Page will sort this out," Chuck says, and he sounds vaguely annoyed. "But you'll have to wait. She's in a session, so I can't disturb her."

"He's been saying that ever since we got out of the car," Matt says. "Karen… is everything alright?"

She sucks in a deep breath, forces her hands down, away from her face. "It's fine. Chuck, they came here for me, not my mother. I'm going to take them into the house, okay? You can let Mom know that we have some unexpected guests whenever she's free next."

Chuck looks between her and Matt and Frank, and she can see it, that need to insist on her mother sorting this out, rising up. But then he nods, jerkily, and heads back into the carriage house.

Karen casts another look around. Her father's car still hasn't moved. Wherever he is, he doesn't seem to be around to object, so she gestures for Frank to follow her, and says, "This way, Matt."

They follow her through the museum that is the foyer and front hall, with the open dining room, sitting room, and library. Neither remarks on the decor. Not for the first time, she wonders how much of it Matt sees — in whatever blend of senses he uses instead of sight. When she looks back, she sees Frank looking forward at her. He arches his brows for a moment, a quick, silent I see you, and she's suddenly absolutely certain that Frank is taking it all in, fitting it all into the things he knows about her.

"Go ahead and sit down," she says, once they're in the kitchen. It seems the best — the only — space to take guests who are there for her. "I'll, um. We have coffee, of course, and I think there's tea around. Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee's good," Frank says, and his eyes are on her, canny, glinting. She feels pinned by the way he looks at her. Schoonover is still so much a mystery to her, and she hates him, how he'd been behind the deaths of Frank's family and then praised Frank at his trial, never mind the fact that he'd tried to kill her twice, but he hadn't been wrong about the way Frank Castle seems to see into souls.

Matt offers her a smile, but his glasses are opaque. His eyes might as well be hollow panes of dark red glass, perfectly round, for all they tell her what he's thinking. She smiles back anyway, and if it takes her a minute to make it look right — like he can even see it — well, that's her problem, not his.

"You mentioned being from a small town," he says. "I don't think I could have ever imagined… I've never left New York." He stops there, waiting, and she tries not to hear: _But I left for you._ Because, as true as that obviously is, it doesn't mean the thing they want it to mean.

"I could never have understood New York," she offers, and dumps the morning's cold coffee down the drain. "Not until I lived there." She's heaping more grounds into the coffee maker when she remembers the groceries in the trunk of her car, and she hisses under her breath. She'll have to go back for them later.

Frank eyes them both for a moment, and then rises from the table. "Think I'm gonna go for a smoke," he says. "Leave you two to it."

He has the grace to push his chair back in before he ambles out of her kitchen.

It's not until Frank has gone, probably out of earshot, that Matt says, "He was lying. He doesn't smoke."

She wants to press, to ask how he can even know that. But it doesn't matter. "Then he was giving us a chance to talk. I… we probably need it."

"Karen," he says, and his voice is so soft, so gentle.

"I keep begging you to talk to me. To just… tell me. I'm tired of it, Matt." She's tired of everything, really. "How long have you been awake?"

"About a week. I… woke up in a convent, I guess. The place was run by nuns. I couldn't leave until three days ago."

The coffee finishes brewing, and she busies herself pouring a couple of cups. They both take theirs black, now, so she doesn't bother grabbing sugar or cream for him. Instead she just places his mug in front of him and then sits down in the chair Frank had just left.

"How did it happen? Could you just… not get out?" It doesn't sound like Matt.

He's silent for a long, long time. Sits there, perfectly still, his expression carefully neutral. He takes a few sips of his coffee, and then at last he looks in her direction, and says, "Elektra was there, and I couldn't get her out. Karen, I couldn't leave her there. But it doesn't change —"

"You chose it," she hears herself saying. "You chose to die." Her own voice sounds hollow in her ears, and she feels like she's suddenly been spread thin, like she's barely there.

"I chose to stay with Elektra," Matt says, his voice harsher than it had been. 

She looks away, realizing that she'd accused him of a mortal sin. The idea of any one sin being worse than any other still sits uncomfortably with her. Still, whether or not he can acknowledge it out loud, it's the truth. He'd chosen to stay with Elektra — the woman in his bed, the woman who had already died in his arms — even though it would have — could have — meant his death.

He had chosen some delusion of a dead woman over his own life. Karen spares a morbid moment to wonder how Matt had perceived her. Did he see her? Hear her voice? Smell her? But the truth is that none of that matters. What matters is his decision.

She looks down. "Okay," she says. "Okay, Matt." She stands up, moving away from the table, and stares out the kitchen window at the rain. "I think maybe you should go."

"Karen, try to understand —"

"I don't think I want to anymore. I think we've figured ourselves out enough, don't you? I think it's time to, to stop hurting ourselves and each other." But the truth is: she's hurting, the kind of wild, furious pain that had propelled her out of this house, out of this life, out of Union Allied. And she wants him to hurt exactly that much.

"Karen."

She shakes her head. "You've been continually walking away from your life for over a year. You've just been looking for excuses not to exist. And now you have one that's never gonna go away. She's dead, and you're always gonna want to join her."

"She's not dead," he says, standing in a rush. "Karen. She was alive — the Hand brought her back."

She just shakes her head. "I told you a year ago I was done with bullshit. And I've been trying, Matt. But I thought we were _both_ trying, and I can't — I can't go back to begging you to let me in and you working this hard to keep me out. Enjoy your stay in Fagan Corners."

She dumps her coffee down the drain and leaves the kitchen, moving quickly through the house. It's like she can feel her own anger, rebounding off all the carefully curated furniture and art, bouncing off the hardwood floors and echoing down the long halls like her father's voice had throughout her childhood. It feels like she's filling the space, and she can hear Matt walking after her, slower, more cautious.

She all but walks into the front door, fingers wrenching at the old-fashioned knob, and then she's using her weight to throw it open, stumbling out into the hard gray drizzle that still hasn't stopped. She stays where she is, holding the door open for him.

He takes his time reaching her, and it only makes her angrier. Is he trying to pretend that he can't navigate perfectly well? But he doesn't take too long, and once he's out of the house, onto the step, she closes the door with a click that sounds final. She has a brief moment of wondering if she's locked herself out of the house.

It'd be just another great moment in this _wonderful_ day. She tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a second. A deep breath in, and then a deep breath out.

Of course, that's the moment she hears a door open, and her father's voice calls, from the direction of the carriage house, "Excuse me, but who are you gentlemen? How did you get here?" There's a momentary pause, and then, in the least helpful or friendly voice she's ever heard him use, Father asks, "Can I help you?"

So now the shit has truly hit the fan. Perfect.


	4. It was never the woods that scared me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember me? I know it's been a while on this chapter, but it was a monster.

Frank isn't sure what he'd expected of the address he found in the phonebook. He hadn't expected the radio to cut out, or the satnav to balk twice. He hadn't expected the long, paved turnoff into a treeline that didn't look thinned out at all, or the stone wall with the wrought-iron topper, or the iron gate.

He leans out the window and stares into a video intercom, and after a moment, the gate opens.

Which just makes him more suspicious. Either they're expecting him or they're — what? Expecting a package, maybe? Expecting work done on the house? It's a pretty nondescript van, could look like anything they'd been expecting. That's half of why he bought it. But he still doesn't like the way that gate slides open without a word said.

He pulls up by some sort of outbuilding. The kind of glass-paned double-doors that Maria had liked. The house itself is a beast — three stories and what he assumes is an attic — with the kind of big, heavy oak door that he'd wanted in a house. There's a dark blue Volvo parked near the outbuilding — 

And a guy storming out of the French doors, headed straight for them. His expression manages to say 'confused' and 'pissed' at the same time, and Frank registers the taser clipped to his belt first, and the private security uniform second. Murdock unfolds his cane, standing with his hands folded over it, and Frank has no doubt that Murdock is contemplating six ways to beat the security guy into a coma.

As it is, he raises his hands. "Look, we don't want any trouble, right? I ain't here to fix your house. Ain't gonna pretend to fix the house. I'm just looking for —"

"Do you have an MRI or a CT? Dr. Page isn't accepting new patients without them." 

It's weird — Frank was expecting the security guy to start in with how they weren't supposed to be there, pissed as he looked, but instead he led with that? He looks at Murdock, not sure how to answer that. Murdock cocks his head like a dog, listening.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding. We're looking for Karen Page. Not Dr. Page," is what the lawyer says. "We believe that she was here?"

The security guys stares for a second, and then says, "Dr. Page will sort that out. But it'll have to wait. She's in a session, so I can't disturb her."

Murdock pauses. "Dr. Page is a woman?"

It's like the security guy doesn't even hear him. "Dr. Page will sort this out, but she's in a session. We can't disturb her. You'll have to wait."

"Okay," Frank says. "We get it. Where do you want us to wait? You okay with us out here, or is there someplace guests should just… go… until Dr. Page is ready for 'em?"

"Dr. Page will —"

"Sort us out, yeah," he snaps, and then hears the sound of an engine approaching. Frank turns. It's some little piece of shit sedan, looks nothing like the Volvo or the Prius parked like they belong there, and then the car's pulling over abruptly and a familiar blonde is pulling out.

She sees him first, and he can see the surprise, but then she lays eyes on Matt, and he almost has to laugh. How she'd ever thought she'd hidden how deeply in love she'd been with Murdock, he honestly has no idea. He hadn't even thought it was a secret. 

It's not madly in love he sees on her face now. She's looking at Murdock, but she's turned toward him, and what he sees is a mixture of hurt and hope that, honestly — 

It just makes him angry. He clenches his fist a moment, but then he turns his attention back to the security guard. Asshole isn't moving, at least, but Frank doesn't trust him not to decide to start tasing his way out of this little logic circle. Karen moves a little, though, and he looks back to her. Makes eye contact.

"Don't look at me, ma'am, I'm just the driver. Who's this shitbrick?"

"He's been saying that," Murdock says. "Ever since we got out of the car. Karen… is everything alright?"

"It's fine." Karen drops her hands away from her face, and turns to the security guard. "Chuck, they came here for me, not my mother. I'm going to take them into the house, okay? You can let Mom know that we have some unexpected guests whenever she's free next."

The security guard — Chuck — looks about ready to start up his spiel again, but then he nods and heads back into the outbuilding. Frank feels himself relax. He follows Karen into the house, past that big, heavy door. The floors are all hardwood, so even Karen's softer, un-heeled footsteps echo, and he finds himself staring at a curio cabinet, a couple sofas he's pretty sure are made of real leather, and huge, expensive-looking rugs. If her parents didn't move all this into the house after their children left, then what the hell kind of childhood could there have been here?

One that had left Karen eating gingersnaps in a broom closet, he remembers. Pretending it was a spaceship that would take her far away.

He hasn't even met her parents yet, and he thinks he's starting to hate them.

She takes them to a kitchen that looks more friendly. It has a big window that looks out on the drive and the lawn — though it's not a large lawn, from what he can see; the trees start back up again close to the house — and the kitchen table itself is a warm, pale wood, with chairs that actually look comfortable surrounding it.

Karen says, "Go ahead and sit down," and as Matt and Frank are pulling out chairs, she offers, "I'll, um. We have coffee, of course, and I think there's tea around. Can I get you anything?"

He watches her. "Coffee's good."

She seems nervous. Murdock's better at hiding it, but he doesn't seem too sure of himself, either. And she keeps her hands busy, getting out mugs, getting out the bag of coffee grounds.

This is a pair of people who need to talk, if ever he's seen one. Without him around. It's not that he thinks they'll bullshit each other — Karen seems long past that; she certainly hadn't taken any shit from _him_ , the last time they'd spoken — but he can't picture either of them saying what needs said with him hanging around, hearing every word.

He doesn't want to hear any of it, anyway.

Murdock's the one to offer up, "You mentioned being from a small town. I don't think I could have ever imagined… I've never left New York."

He stops there, like he's waiting for an answer, and Karen pours the morning's coffee down the sink, eventually trading back, "I could never have understood New York. Not until I lived there." 

She starts heaping coffee grounds into a new filter, like she didn't just waste half a pot, and then she hisses something under her breath. Murdock may hear words in it; Frank doesn't.

Now's as good a time as any to stand up, so he does. If there's time, he'll get a mug later. He's not sure if he actually expects there to be time, or for them to be welcome that long. "Think I'm gonna go for a smoke," he lies. "Leave you two to it." That part isn't a lie.

He finds Chuck the security guy leaning against outside the garage thing, cupping a cigarette in his hands. It's still drizzling, and he's clearly counting on the overhang to keep him and his smokes dry.

"So how'd you get this gig?" Frank asks as he steps under the overhang. It takes timing; the drizzle means there's steady downpours from the gutters and the drainspouts, and he'd rather not get soaked.

Chuck takes a long drag and shrugs one shoulder. "Dr. Page needed somebody to keep an eye on the gate, make sure none of the patients got too out of hand."

"And there's nothing better around?"

Chuck gives him a surprisingly dry look. Honestly, Frank wouldn't have expected it of the guy. "Just what do you think is _in_ Fagan Corners?" When Frank doesn't have an answer, he says, "Never caught your name. You came here for Miss Page?"

"Frank," he says. "And no, not really. I brought Murdock here because he needed to see Karen."

"Murdock. The blind guy?" Another long drag in, another long exhale of smoke.

"Yeah. Lawyer, if you couldn't tell."

"Huh." A pause. "Sorry about earlier. I still get confused a lot." Another pause, and then Chuck offers, "Smoke?"

He considers it. But smoking is one of the few terrible habits common to soldiers he didn't pick up in the Marines, and it's not great for someone in his position. Tends to shorten the lifespan by a lot, and that's not counting what it'll do to his lungs. Too much to do, to go cashing in by being stupid.

"No, thanks. Never picked it up. No sense picking it up now." Frank pauses, considering Chuck, and then asks, "You serve?"

"Marines," is Chuck's immediate answer. "You?"

"Semper Fi, Marine."

"Semper Fi." Chuck tosses his cigarette down, grinds the little red flame out with the toe of his boot. "Gonna go see if Todd's out of the treatment room yet, maybe get off shift early today."

He hasn't made it far along the building before Karen comes storming out of the Page house, furiously holding the door open. Murdock takes his sweet time following, and Frank can see Chuck tensing. Like he thinks he's gonna have to drag Murdock out.

Frank almost wishes him luck. Then again, that taser might be a hell of an equalizer.

Murdock does follow, eventually. Karen's whole body is a tense line while she waits. He wouldn't be surprised if she were shaking and pale with rage, but she's just a lean blonde smudge, really, and the way Murdock stands looks no less tense. Karen slams the door closed — 

And the French doors on the old garage open up, and out strides a skeletally thin man with thinning gray-blond hair. When he speaks, his voice booms like someone who's been in the shit, or maybe like a drill instructor or somebody else who's had to learn to yell. He takes in both Frank and Murdock with one sweeping, scorching blue gaze, and then demands, "Excuse me, but who are you gentlemen? How did you get here? Can I help you?"

Karen looks to Frank, like he's got answers. Then again, technically, he's the one who started this shitshow by bringing her favorite vigilante up here.

Frank pushes away from the wall. He tries on a friendly smile, offering his hand. "Afternoon. You must be Mr. Page? I'm a friend of your daughter's, and uh. Another friend of hers," he jerks his head toward Murdock, "Matt Murdock, asked me to bring him here to see her. They had some things to discuss."

" _Doctor_ Page. And Karen mentioned that she'd been seeing someone by that name," is the old man's wary observation. "But she said he died ten days ago." His handshake is firm, but a little clammy.

Frank nods, resisting the urge to rub his hand on the back of his jeans. "That's why Matt needed to talk to her. Turns out he was just badly hurt and didn't end up in the right hospital." He offers up another smile, one of those _thank god, right_ expressions.

Page doesn't crack or soften. Instead, he regards Frank for a long, long moment, with the sort of cold distance of someone deciding whether or not to stomp a bug. Frank works hard not to tense up too obviously — he's absolutely certain this won't end up in a fight, but he's on edge for one anyway.

At last, Page says, "He caused my daughter significant pain."

"And that's why he came in person," Frank says. He's casting around for something else to say, some way to make an exit, but Karen's moving toward them.

Her expression is somewhere between restrained and thunderous. Like she's less than forty seconds from completely losing her shit, but she's still too polite to go off yelling at them — just yet, anyway.

"Frank," she says. "Matt just said he was leaving. Do you mind driving him back into town? I'm a little tied up with things here."

As graceful an exit as he's gonna get. He nods and offers his goodbyes, and prepares to head over to collect Murdock, but Page holds up a hand. His gaze flicks between Karen, Murdock, and Frank, and something about the way Page's jaw firms tells Frank that somebody isn't gonna like what the old man has to say.

He's not wrong, because Page says, "Penelope and I are both very curious about Karen's time outside Fagan Corners. Would you and Mr. Murdock be willing to come to dinner tonight?"

Karen's face is a picture. She's still got the restrained thing going on, like being home makes her need to curl in on herself, makes her feel like she's got to hide everything. But it's a kind of restrained outrage, or maybe betrayal. The yelling hasn't happened yet, but it's imminent.

Frank looks from Karen to her father. There aren't any good options, here — if he accepts, he probably pisses her off, but if he declines, he'll have to deal with both a pissy Murdock and a suspicious father. Small towns like this, everybody's connected to everybody, and a worried local getting a buddy in law enforcement to run the van's plates will be enough to cause him plenty of problems.

"I — yeah. Yes, thank you," he manages. "We'll look forward to it. What time?"

Page doesn't so much nod as tilt his chin downward exactly once, at an angle. Either Frank's reply was exactly what he expected or he's acknowledging a point scored, and Frank doesn't want to bet on which that gesture means.

Especially since there's something in Page's eyes that Frank doesn't like. His expression is every bit as restrained as Karen's — odds are good her father's where she learned it — but there's something haunted, or maybe desperate.

"We'll expect you here at seven," Page says. And then his expression has turned steely again, and he moves past both Frank and Karen toward the house.

So that's that, apparently.

* * *

The gate slides open, soundless, as soon as the van gets near it, and then they're on the twisty, tree-choked roads back into town, the radio static coming through clearer, gradually more signal than noise, with every second that passes.

"Don't think that went well," Frank says.

Murdock's only reply is a snapped, "Don't."

Frank keeps his focus on the road for a mile or so, and then casually throws out, "How pissed you think she's gonna be at dinner?"

Murdock snorts. "You say that like it matters to you," he says, and his tone isn't accusing so much as bitterly incredulous. "You just want a chance to drag her into your never-ending war."

Which is fucking rich, coming from Matt Murdock. Last Frank heard, Karen'd spent a few days in a police station because she was associated with him. Hell, she'd been kidnapped and held hostage by goddamned ninjas because of her association with him. But _Frank's_ the asshole who just wants to drag her into his fight?

That Murdock isn't totally wrong, exactly, stings more than a little.

Once they get back into town — and thus the bed-and-breakfast — they head up to their separate rooms. Murdock is probably glad of a chance to get away; Frank knows he sure as hell needs at least five minutes apart. If he hadn't been able to get this time, he's honestly not sure how he'd keep himself from strangling the man. As it is, he spends the afternoon and evening unpacking, and then takes a nap. He'd learned in the Marines to get sleep whenever he could, and re-learned that lesson as a new father. By now, it's deeply ingrained.

They meet at the base of the stair at six fifteen. Strangely, it's not a thing they had to negotiate. At least Murdock knows how to be punctual, he guesses, if it's something other than Frank's own court case.

Yeah, that doesn't make him less bitter. He has a lot of bitter thoughts as they load into the van. But he doesn't share them, and Murdock seems willing to let him sit and stew. He probably assumes Frank is stewing about their earlier argument — and if that's the assumption, he's wrong.

The drive back to the Page house — estate, really — passes in silence, just the radio playing something broken, eventually swallowed up by the early sunset and the curves and the brilliant leaves. The gate rolls open as easily and soundlessly as it had shut before, and he finds himself eying that wall. Does it go all the way around the property? No point in a big fancy gate like that if it doesn't, at least not so far as he can see, but maybe it turns chainlink somewhere.

He parks next to the piece of shit he assumes is Karen's. Theirs are the only cars in the drive with New York plates, he realizes, but the thought flickers away as Karen opens the front door. Her smile is tense, strained.

And it's not like he can blame her for that. Even if he'd hoped for something better. Murdock follows her into the house first, and all the tension that had been in Karen's face is in the way he walks, the way he hunches his shoulders, the curl of his fists like he's prepping for a fight.

"Karen, I didn't intend," Frank hears.

She cuts him off with, "I don't really think now's the time. Do you?" And with that, she turns, offering both of them a smile she doesn't mean. Frank wonders if Murdock can see it, if he has any sense of it at all. What exactly a blind ninja lawyer perceives on his better days has always been a mystery to Frank. But Karen doesn't seem to care; she just continues on with that fake smile and offers, "Would the two of you like a tour of the house? It's one of the oldest buildings in the area."

Murdock is too tense, too stiff or startled or still in the grip of however their discussion earlier in the day went, to give her much of an answer. So Frank is the one to say, "Not sure if he's up for it, but, uh, sure." He offers her an equally insincere smile —

And what's weird is, when she looks over at him, he can see the minute she realizes he's faking as much as she is. And, rather than piss her off, that seems to amuse her. Makes her eyes crinkle, anyway, and the smile softens from icy imitation to the less perfect look of the real thing. Actual warmth.

During the tour that follows — if it can be called that, really — he learns more about the Page family as a presence in this tiny-ass town than he'd expected. He hadn't really expected there to be anything _to_ learn. But Fagan Corners predates the Revolutionary War, and the Page estate has made it into _Haunted Vermont_ — because, apparently, an entire family disappearing one winter is unusual enough to be in a book.  
.  
"Do you believe in ghosts?" Murdock asks, sounding a little startled, and a little eager. The way he always gets when he gets the chance to be Catholic at somebody.

Karen laughs — not unkindly, but there's still strain in her voice when she says, "I don't know if I believe in ghosts somewhere else — somebody always has a creepy story — but not here. It was never — it was never the woods that scared me, when I was a kid."

 _Pretend it was a spaceship_ , another, younger Karen whispers in a hospital room, a year ago. _Take me far away._ And he wants to punch Doctor Page, that skeleton-thin old man, all sharp bones and hard angles, like Ichabod Crane but old.

And then she's hiding it all away, walling it up behind a polite, pleasant smile, clapping her hands together once. If he didn't know her better, he'd think she was nervous, rather than trying to cover up tension from seeing Murdock again. "I've probably spared you all the awkward I can. Time to head down and face the music."

Turns out that the Doctor Page that Chuck had been talking about is a green-eyed blonde with curly hair and the kind of build that says middle-aged midwestern housewife. Just starting to get plump, now, but slender for most of her life. She looks warm and approachable, even for a total stranger — compared to her scarecrow-on-stilts husband, she looks downright _cuddly_.

Looking at the three of them in one room, there's no doubt in his mind that Karen is their daughter, or that she was raised in this house. And there's no doubt who she takes more after, at least by inclination.

"Frank and Matt," says Doctor Page, smiling so wide her cheeks dimple and her eyes squint a little. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Penelope." 

She offers a hand, and Frank takes it. She looks a little less sure what to do with Murdock, and he smooths it over by offering her his own hand, which she takes with a grateful smile. Murdock's expression doesn't change.

As they sit down to dinner — in a dining room that looks like a set piece, with table and chairs in matching cherry wood, polished to a mirror shine, and after passing through several rooms that don't dampen the museum vibe — Penelope turns on him with the same polite smile Karen uses. She does it while she's passing a dish of lamb stew toward him, at least.

"You must be a very good friend to Matt, to bring him all the way up here from New York."

He should have expected that. Frank waits a moment before answering, trying to find the space to get his thoughts together. They rattle, jumbled, and he eventually thanks her for the stew and says, "I'm more Karen's friend, ma'am."

Too polite, too mild surprise on Penelope's face. It's a coached expression, familiar, and for the first time he finds himself wondering how much of the face Karen wears around everybody but him is a mask, and how he'd started seeing behind it.

"I worked with her on a story, a while back," he says. "Boring stuff."

"I should hardly think journalism is boring, young man," Page says, in the kind of disapproving father voice that belongs in a movie about the fifties.

"That one ended up…" A pause, and Karen says, "It wound up being a lot of deep background for a story I couldn't publish. It's, um. Hard to talk about."

"That's a word for it," Murdock says, and apparently doesn't notice the way Page's eyes flick to watch him. He probably doesn't sense the way the old man's mouth turns down, unhappy, either.

Christ. He turns to skewer Murdock right back, but stops at the way Penelope is watching them.

Page is a lot less subtle. "So if you're more Karen's friend than Mr. Murdock's, why did you bring him all the way out here, mister…?"

"Castiglione," he says, smooth as he can, like it's his name. Technically, it really is. "And — well. I heard Karen'd come back here. I figured she was hurtin' bad. Didn't exactly sound like a good friend, to me, if Murdock wanted to come here and tell her he wasn't dead, and I didn't help him out with it. For her sake."

Page nods like he accepts the answer, but his eyes narrow for a moment.

"I, uh. Do appreciate it, Frank," Murdock says, into the awkward silence.

Frank nods in reply, and then realizes that Murdock might or might not have seen it — or sensed it or whatever — so he says, "No trouble. Gave me a chance to see where Karen grew up." He tries not to look too hard, too obviously, at the senior Pages as he offers, "Karen told me a couple of stories about this house, when we were first getting to know each other."

Paxton Page doesn't seem to notice the scrutiny, or doesn't care, because he looks warily, uneasily, at Karen for a second. Penelope reacts with a look of pleased surprise, and he doesn't think that's coached. So at least one of them remembers their kids' childhoods more fondly. On a side note, Murdock has turned his head in Frank's general direction and his brows are hooked down.

"The only things she told me were that she used to tie her brother's ties, and that Fagan Corners has about four hundred people," Murdock says, his voice a little flat.

The temptation to needle the other man, to get in a good jab, is hard to resist. But he manages, mostly because it's best not to be too memorable. He and Murdock need to be those nice gentlemen, Frank and Matt, who came to visit and seemed perfectly pleasant and normal at dinner.

"Even if the thing we worked on didn't turn out, Karen's been on the front page a couple times," he says. He was a parent himself, once, and even if the Pages were evidently shitty at it, there's nothing any parent likes to hear more than praise of their kid. The thought aches, a stab that strikes too close.

That earns an indulgent nod from Penelope — she's heard this, he'd guess — while Paxton Page nods more vigorously, grasping onto the conversational lifeline. "She mentioned writing a story on Danny Rand. Mr. Murdock, I understand you're a lawyer. Did you ever move in his circle?"

The question pretty obviously surprises Murdock. He starts to shake his head, then tilts it to one side. "Not professionally. Foggy and I met him through some community outreach he was doing."

"And what sort of impression did he make?" Here, Paxton leans in, just a little. Looks crouched, expectant.

"He means well, and he tries. I respect that."

Karen laughs — a surprisingly wry little chuckle. She shakes her head, disbelieving, and the restraint for once doesn't seem to be there. She's amused, and possibly annoyed, and from the way her jackass lawyer buddy rocks his head back, Murdock realizes it.

Penelope's the one to ask, "I sense a but."

Karen answers her with, "Danny… Doesn't think before he acts," and Murdock chimes in with, "Leaping before you look, the way Danny does, it can drag people into things they weren't prepared for, and take them down with him."

There's no resisting the urge to score a point. Not when he's been handed such a perfect opening. "That doesn't sound like anybody I know at _all_ ," and that last word comes out drawled.

Interestingly, though Penelope and her husband offer up dutiful chuckles, from the way Karen recoils, she feels just as stung as Murdock. He winces, and adds, very quietly, "Didn't mean you, Karen. Just thought I'd point out to Matt over there that he's the one who pushed for this trip, and now I'm stuck in the middle of whatever disagreement you two are _still_ having."

She offers him a tremulous smile in response, and her mother, at least, seems willing to pretend she hadn't heard the aside. The old man's eyes narrow, and his gaze rests on Murdock for a long, long few moments.

There's a natural lull, as they all work on actually eating dinner rather than just blowing on it, and then Paxton, stick-thin old scarecrow that he happens to be, manages to surprise the table. It starts with him cutting himself another piece of bread, and asking, "Karen, you remember I mentioned I was clearing my schedule on Friday?"

"This morning, yes," she replies, seeming faintly surprised. Her brow furrows a little, forming a confused little pucker right at the top of her nose. It's kind of cute, actually; something uniquely hers, that he hasn't seen on either of her parents, no matter how she resembles them both.

"I thought I'd go hunting with a few of the old crowd. Arnie, Chuck. You know who I mean."

Her reply, when it comes a few beats later than he'd expected, is in a tone blank with confusion, like she can't connect that statement to anything else. "Your revisions are on Saturday."

He waves a hand, dismissing it. "I'm old. Been giving sermons a long time. I don't need as much time to revise as I used to. But no, it's just a day's hunt. Early morning, home by sundown." A pause, a delicate one, and then he says, "Your, uh. Your old things — camo, ear protection. It's still in one of the closets on the third floor."

Her brows shoot up. "You don't really think I can still fit into camo I wore in high school."

The look Page sends his daughter would almost be withering, if there weren't amusement in it, too, and Karen ducks her head, smiling.

"You're asking me to go with you?"

"I was thinking about those mornings, recently. Before you got here, even."

"Sitting in the blind with cold coffee, watching the sun come up?" Her eyes drift closed a second, as if she's remembering. Savoring the memory. "I'll see if I have anything that still fits."

Page offers a grim, serious, nod. Like she's agreed to something more than just spending a day hunting with her father.

Murdock turns his head to face her, and asks, with his brow hooked down and his mouth curving unhappily, "Karen, you… hunt?"

"Uh, yes?"

One thing Frank has learned: every woman has a particular expression she only gets when a man she likes too much to yell at is being so stupid it actually hurts her. Maria had given him that look a _lot_ , in those early, crazy, whirlwind days. He'd been an idiot — head over heels, along for whatever ride she'd wanted and happy to be there — but she'd liked him anyway.

Karen's version of the look has an edge of annoyance to it and a lot less love than he'd seen from Maria, but it means the same damned thing.

"You don't seem the type," is Matt's attempt at an explanation.

Her expression takes on a shade of even deeper confusion, turns just faintly bitter, and it all shows in her voice. "Why? Because I'm nice to you? Because I wear heels?"

For his part, Page looks legitimately amused. "I suspect Mr. Murdock is far too polite to answer that question, Karen. He's a city boy. It didn't occur to him that someone he liked and respected could be so… rural."

And there's no helping it. Between the faint distaste in Page's voice and the look on Karen's face, Frank is laughing. He manages to choke most of it down, turn it into a coughing fit, but his chuckle was obvious enough to draw the attention of the rest of the table.

"I'm just," he shakes his head, ducking it down to hide the smile that's still stuck in the corner of his mouth, "I'm seein' it. Little Karen Page, in her camo and her bright orange earmuffs. And braces. Jesus."

Page's jaw twitches, and Frank remembers that he's apparently sitting at a preacher's dinner table. But after a few beats, the old man starts to look thoughtful, and then he says, "Penny, are the albums from 2000 still on the third floor?"

Penelope lifts her wineglass to her mouth, clearly thinking as she takes a sip. "I haven't moved them," she says, eventually.

Karen watches this conversation with an expression that looks worried. And there's this moment where it hurts -- not her worry, but the source of it, the _why_ of it. He never got to scare the shit out of Lisa by threatening the photo albums from when she'd been an awkward-looking teen, wearing t-shirts she'd think had been dumb as hell, later, and doing god knew what to her hair and face. And now he'll never have that chance, Lisa will never be any older even though she deserved so much more of a life than she got to have, and there's this moment of _awful_ , this moment where how much he wants them back threatens to suck him away.

* * *

Dessert turns out to be pie and coffee in a formal sitting room, and a sprawling argument that stretches out into the night. He's a little surprised at how long both Paxton and Penelope are willing to stay awake; his own parents had been about the age the Pages are now when he'd been twelve, and they'd turned out the lights at eight o'clock sharp. But the hour slides from eight into nine, and the Pages are nowhere near sleep; Paxton and Murdock are leaned into each other, intent on their discussion, while Penelope watches, clearly entertained.

Then again, Murdock is all but in his element, pulling out bits and pieces of scripture, poking Paxton with them. At some point he'd pulled his glasses off, tucking them into his collar, and his sightless eyes gleam, even as his head cocks like a dog's toward Page, if he's talking, or whoever's making noise.

Karen, on the other hand, keeps tensing up. Not the tension of worry, like before, but like she's trying hard not to say something. She's pulling into herself again, hiding behind that restraint and reserve. Hides the fact that she's hiding behind a conversation with him. It's a little strained, a little too vague — there's too much they both wanna know that they can't ask outright. But it keeps them out of the fray; Murdock and Page are having plenty of fun on their own sticking each other with theological pins, and if either of them tried to join in, they'd just end up pincushions themselves.

Eventually, he rises to carry his latest cup of coffee into the kitchen, leaning over to snag Murdock's too. Murdock's cup is still half full; he dumps it down the drain and leaves both mugs in the sink.

"We should probably get back to town," he says, as he steps back into the sitting room. Karen's expression turns just faintly disappointed.

Penelope rises, clearly preparing to show them to the door, but Page shakes his head. "I won't hear of it. It's much too late to drive these roads. Especially at this time of year."

"We wouldn't want to impose," Murdock says, but he trails off, like he's wavering, when so far as Frank can tell, Matt Murdock's never wavered a day in his life.

Seems Murdock doesn't need to see Paxton Page's face to know how he feels. Most of the old man's expression is smooth and even, but there's an expression of desperation in his eyes. Fear — and it's very, very real.

"You're sure it wouldn't be trouble? Don't wanna get in anyone's way."

"It seems you haven't noticed," Page says, wry, like he isn't relaxing, like the look in his eyes isn't relief and gratitude, "but we have a very large house."

Murdock's got his head tilted again, his eyes narrowed like he's putting things together. And he gives Frank a nod from behind Paxton and Penelope Page, like he's figured out the same thing Frank has and agrees with him.

"That's a very kind offer, Dr. Page," Murdock says.

"Long as we ain't gonna impose, you're probably right we should stay off the road." He's perfectly fine to drive, and there's a moment it annoys him to pretend he's not, but it saves face all around.

He gets the impression, from the way Murdock moves as Karen pulls open the door of a back staircase, that Murdock noticed Paxton's relief as much as Frank did. They neither of them mention it, though. They just follow Karen up the steep, creaky staircase to the third floor, and if she's noticed anything, she doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't say much of anything at all, actually; it's pretty clear she's all but lost in her own thoughts.

They walk all the way down the third floor, until they're on the opposite side of the hall from the back staircase. The rooms here all have thick doors with ancient brass doorknobs and metal plates above them. Karen opens them — one hand on the knob, one on the plate — to reveal what turn out to be a pair of guest bedrooms, with heavy wooden furniture and beds laden with quilts.

"There's a bathroom across the hall," Karen says, still pretty obviously preoccupied. "I'll be just downstairs if either of you needs anything." That she doesn't expect them to need her for anything, she doesn't say, but he hears loud and clear anyway, and then Murdock is stepping into one of the bedrooms.

Frank steps into the other and shuts the door, listening for a moment until he hears another door open, and soft footsteps on old stairs. He settles onto the bed for long enough to unlace his boots, then lines them up where they'll be easy to shove his feet into, and settles backwards. There's wood panelling on part of the ceiling, and when he turns his head to look out the window, he sees what he can only assume is the Page family graveyard, and a pair of figures wandering it, one tall, one less so.

It's too quiet here, he thinks, right before he falls asleep.


End file.
